


(There Will be a Time) To Murder and Create

by JustAGirl24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Western, Attempted Murder, F/M, Mostly Mayhem, Moustache of Dark Twizzlement, Silent Movie Set, Slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silent Western movie star Jaime Lannister is nearly killed during the making of his latest film. Is it an accident? Or a clever ruse to murder the infamous leading man?</p><p>Thank the gods that Brienne is there to save the damsel in distress.</p><p>The plot thickens from there.</p><p>Prompt fill for the incomparable SandwichesYumYum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandwichesYumYum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/gifts).



> From the following prompt: _I saw this and immediately had a hankering for a fic where one of our pair (and I know which one I'd prefer, tbh, lol!) is tied to some train tracks by a doer of theatrical evil who has a moustache of dark twizzlement, and has to be rescued by the other. *Plays the plinky-plonky piano of silent movie peril* There could also be murderderation and such. I'm not fussed about that. Ta muchly._
> 
> Title comes from 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'. This is set on a silent movie set in the 1920s at some point. I'm no expert on silent movie sets or the 1920s, so anything odd will be explained in end notes. I will also be adding definitions of some of the 1920s slang I use for anyone interested.

“Hung out to dry again, Kingslayer?”  Jaime squinted up at the woman towering over him from underneath the brim of his 10-gallon hat, the late morning sun forming a bright corona around her modest Stetson.

“I’m afraid so, bearcat,” he sighed nonchalantly, wriggling the fingers of his left hand in a small wave and giving her his most winning smile, even through his irritation with the hated moniker.

“My _name_ is _Brienne,”_ she hissed, kneeling at his side and giving a sharp tug to the rope wound around his torso.  A frustrated huff blew past his ear as she began picking at the knot which kept him bound to the railroad tracks he’d been laid out on.

Jaime closed his eyes against the glare of the desert sun, trying to ignore the metal tracks starting to dig painfully into his shoulders and lower back, as time seemed to drag. He could hear chattering and the occasional burst of laughter from the crew as they enjoyed their dinner in the camp which was several hundred yards away from the tracks.  He was damnably hot in the noon sun, even with the shade of his hat, hotter than he’d been since he’d left Texas to try his hand (and here he stifled a snort, _pun not intended_ ) in California.  The bearcat continued to huff and puff next to him, large, callused hands picking at the stubborn knot with dirt-caked fingernails.

“Making any headway, _bearcat?”_ he asked sardonically.  Gods knew she was the best entertainment around when she got steamed up, anyhow, and this was shaping up to be a long day.  She let out an annoyed grunt, reminiscent of the hogs raised on his father’s ranch, and he thought about the pond behind Casterly Ranch, refreshing even on the hottest days of an El Paso heat wave, the horse barn with its dark, cool interior and dirt-packed floor and the dusty loft above filled with golden hay, where he and Cersei had—well, never mind all that now, and he was brought back to the present, the oppressive heat and dust of the Mojave desert, by a rumbling sound.

“Are you really _that_ hungry?” he asked, her only response a scowl which made her already ugly face something truly formidable.  “I do believe you've turned into one giant freckle by this point, doll.”

“Mr. Lannister,” Brienne ground out, “I’ll thank you to keep your remarks to yourself before I leave you here alone.”  Jaime felt his grin slip a bit, and noticed the rumbling had increased, but before he could say anything, she had started talking again.  “This _knot,_ ” she grunted, still picking at the complicated thing.  “It wasn’t this difficult to free you yesterday afternoon.  Or any other time this morning,” she added. Jaime frowned.  “It’s not a square knot, it’s a constrictor,” the bearcat muttered.

“Oh?  Did you want to be a bell-bottom before you became a cowgirl, then?”  Brienne paused to look at him, thick lips twisted in a grimace and wide blue eyes stark against her face— _astonishing eyes,_ he realized with a jolt, a kaleidoscope of blues: the cornflowers he and Cersei had picked bouquets of on their way home from the Sept each week; the azure of the cloudless sky above them; the royal blue of his mother’s prized willow bowl.

The rumbling Jaime had noticed earlier was increasing, more insistent than it had been, and he began to realize it wasn’t coming from the woman next to him—Jaime turned his head to the side, tearing his gaze away from Brienne’s glare, and looked east with a growing sense of dread.

“Brienne,” he said calmly, carefully, not tearing his eyes away from the tracks, “if you could really 'hit on all sixes' while untying the ropes, there’s a train on its way.”  The bearcat followed his gaze, mouth slightly open as though to give him an earful, and gaped at the train they could see in the distance.

“ _Brienne,_ ” Jaime said again, forcefully, bringing her eyes back to his, and he could see real fear there, the same fear he knew was in his own eyes.  He saw the same options passing through her brain and being discarded in the next moment—the camp was too noisy to yell for help, too far away to run for assistance.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, shiny pocket knife, barely the length of his thumb.  She quickly extended the short blade, thin as a nail file, the sunlight glancing off its surface and dappling her cheek and chin.

“Do you trust me?” she whispered, and Jaime nodded emphatically.  What other choice did he have? he wondered, half black humor, half despair.  The bearcat— _Brienne_ , he corrected himself—nodded decisively and began sawing methodically at the rope with her tiny blade, sweat beading on her forehead and running into her eyes as he kept his eyes on the glistening black engine moving inexorably closer.  She gave a small noise of triumph as the first strand gave, then the second, and finally the third, until the whole coil loosened a bit around his chest.

“ _Brienne,_ ” he yelled urgently over the shriek of the whistle piercing the air, the conductor finally having realized either that they were there, or that they weren’t going to be moving, Jaime couldn’t say.  He heard the squealing of the brakes, but knew even though the train was still a fair bit away, it wouldn’t stop in time.  He prayed to the Seven to get him out of this somehow— _a Lannister cannot die while making a moving picture,_ he knew with conviction.  _A Lannister should not be making a moving picture at all,_ his father seemed to say with even greater certainty.  He felt a tugging at his chest as the ropes fell away, but couldn’t tear his gaze away from the headlamp bearing down on him, drowning in the shrieking brakes and the screaming whistle.  He closed his eyes, knew that the Stranger had finally come for him at last, no matter how nobly Brienne had tried to save him with her pitiful pocket knife.  _I’m sorry, Cersei…_

Strong hands grasped Jaime’s ankles, a great cry competing with the sound of the oncoming train as he was pulled off the tracks, the back of his skull colliding with each metal track painfully before landing in soft sand.  He felt his hair ruffle in the breeze as the train barreled past where he’d been just a moment before.  He stared at the sky, gray-ish spiderweb-looking things beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision.  _Shock_ , he thought calmly. _And a concussion, most likely_ , and knew he would be unconscious soon.  But first, the bearcat—where was she?

Suddenly, her face, _her eyes_ , were all he could see.  “Kingslayer?” she cried, slapping at his cheek, and he knew it was enough.

“My name…is Jaime,” he rasped, eyes rolling back in his head as he finally lost consciousness, but he would have sworn he heard his brother, Tyrion, asking him how a Lannister could ever repay this particular debt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hung out to dry,_ left to your own devices  
>  _Bearcat,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Doll,_ an attractive female  
>  _Bell-bottom,_ a sailor  
>  _Hit on all sixes,_ to perform perfectly  
>  _Steamed up,_ angry  
>  _Moving picture,_ a movie, a film
> 
> Thanks again to sammitches for the fun-filled prompt! And for anyone interested, I'm planning to update once a week or so. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne cast a worried glance at the Kingsl— _Jaime’s_ unconscious form lying on the low cot in his tent.  Doc Pycelle had said it was a minor concussion, and all in all, Jaime ought to wake up soon with nothing worse than a headache.  _At least you managed to… return Mr. Lannister to us,_ Petyr Baelish, the director, had sniffed out disdainfully, his curling lip tilting the thin, pointed moustache he kept so carefully waxed at an odd angle.  She huffed out a breath, wringing out a cloth in the basin of tepid water next to her.  Crouching down, she carefully wiped the dust from Jaime’s face and neck.  She wondered sourly what else she was supposed to have done in such an emergency—instead, they acted like she was a flat tire or just plain crackers.

She sighed heavily and sat down, the cloth landing back in the basin with a wet _plop_ as she tipped back the brim of her battered Stetson.  Three weeks she’d been working on this film— _Don’t take any wooden nickels in Hollywood, Brienne,_ her father had warned her, and she supposed she hadn’t listened as well as she ought to have done. Officially, her job was building sets, but instead, she’d spent the last few weeks catering to the whims of the Kin— _Jaime_ on the personal request of Catelyn Stark, and what thanks did she get?  Endless comments about her face, her height, and personality— _Howdy, Mrs. Grundy_ was a favorite greeting of Jaime’s and a good portion of the rest of the crew, and hardly the worst. The same man insisted on calling her  _bearcat_ of all the hooey she'd had thrown her way.

Brienne scratched her forehead absently, wincing as she touched the sunburned flesh—Well, wasn’t that the cat’s pajamas?  He was probably right, and she was on her way to looking like one solid freckle, or at least close.  Jaime rolled onto his side, snoring softly.  She glanced at his face, relaxed in his unconscious state and perfectly tanned from the desert sun.  He was definitely a sheik if she ever saw one, with that strong jawline and golden-blonde hair, but pretty on the outside didn’t mean pretty on the inside.  The fact that the other actors ignored him between shots, and the crew couldn’t be bothered to untie him from the train tracks, attested to that.

Rumors flew left and right on set about the infamous Jaime Lannister, son and heir of Tywin Lannister, the largest cattle rancher—and by default, richest man—in Texas.  Beyond knowing who his old man was, though, everything else about the man was a mystery.  And what a mystery!

The most obvious was his hand—quite possibly the most open secret Brienne had come across during her time in Hollywood.  While Jaime Lannister had been a name seen on every marquee since his first film as the ‘Aurochs Ace,’ his latest movie was the first one about the popular cowboy that Brienne had worked on. She’d never known until a week in that he had a prosthesis where his right hand should have been. It was clever, with joints in the fingers that could be manipulated to hold Honor’s reins, or wrap around the stock of a prop rifle—and he was never seen without a pair of black leather gloves and a long-sleeved chambray shirt.

While Brienne tried to stay away from gossip—the gods knew she’d been the subject of it enough times to know it was rarely accurate—how the Kingslayer had lost his hand was a favorite topic of the set crew and many of the extras.  Some said he’d been born without it—deformity ran in the Lannister family, as it was well-known that he had a dwarf for a brother.  Others said it had happened during a skirmish between Casterly Rock and a neighboring ranch.  Still others said it was vengeance for pitching woo with a mob boss’s squeeze.

But even that was the subject of still more gossip, as the Kingsl— _Jaime, Jaime,_ she reminded herself, _that’s what he wants you to call him, and you need this job_ —had never been seen with a gal around town.  Hushed voices wondered whether he was queer, or perhaps had a secret dame.

Brienne cared little for such speculation—there might be a grain of truth in all the colorful chatter surrounding him, but the scandal which had given rise to the nickname Kingslayer seemed to overshadow it all.  Brienne herself was convinced that celebrity was the only thing which had saved him from the big house after the death of “King” Aerys Targaryen. After all, anyone else who had been found holding the gun which had killed the head of a rival studio—not a shred of remorse to be found—would have been in stir right quick.  That the Aurochs Ace’s trusty steed was named Honor, while he strove to spread Truth and Justice through the Old West, just seemed to rub salt in the wound.

But whatever her personal feelings on the Kingslayer— _Jaime—_ she was concerned about what had happened at the tracks.  She’d vowed not to let Mrs. Stark down, to keep Jaime Lannister in line as well as possible and not allow his theatrics to delay completion of the eighth _Aurochs Ace_ movie.  But the more she thought about the day’s events, the less things seemed to add up. 

First was the constrictor knot.  While not uncommon, it was the first time she’d run into it while filming this particular scene, and Mr. Baelish had insisted on no less than twelve separate takes over the past two days.  Also, why use such a difficult knot when a square knot would do the same job and be much easier to untie?  Second, and most important, was the train itself.  While using existing tracks leant more realism to the movie they were filming, train schedules had been carefully examined.  This stretch of track was supposed to see only a single train, and that one in the middle of the night, leaving plenty of daylight for filming without any risk.  Considering how carefully trains were scheduled, Brienne found this to be very odd indeed.

Brienne’s stomach grumbled, and she remembered that she’d missed dinner.  If she were lucky, Jaime might wake up before supper was served, but she wasn’t holding her breath.  The earlier adrenaline rush of the day’s events was finally catching up to her, along with the relentless heat.  Brienne’s head nodded forward until the brim of her old Stetson rested on the edge of Jaime’s cot.

It couldn’t hurt to rest her eyes for a moment…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Flat tire,_ a stupid female  
>  _Crackers,_ insane  
>  _Don’t take any wooden nickels,_ don’t do anything stupid  
>  _Mrs. Grundy,_ a priggish or prudish person  
>  _Smoked,_ killed  
>  _Cat’s pajamas,_ something excellent, outstanding  
>  _Sheik,_ a sexy man  
>  _Old man,_ father  
>  _Pitching woo,_ making love  
>  _Squeeze,_ a female companion; girlfriend  
>  _Big house,_ jail  
>  _In stir,_ in jail  
>  _Hooey,_ nonsense


	3. Chapter 3

_Dark and quiet, the smell of hay, and Cersei’s hair brushing his arm._ Jaime dreamed he was back in the dusty loft of the barn where he and Cersei had spent so much time, basking in contented silence, secure in his love for her. Jaime wanted nothing more than to stay there, when he’d been whole and happy, when Cersei had loved only him, but the spike of pain driving through his head wouldn’t let him rest. Besides, he could hear voices coming closer, closer, closer, coming to find him, to find Cersei, pulling him from the hayloft, and—

Jaime could only feel the pain, a throbbing ache shooting from the back of his head to a point above his right eye. He cracked one eye open and glimpsed the moldering tarp above him, sharp smells burning his nose, and he knew he was in Doc Pycelle’s med tent. Nothing else could have that particular…odor. Strangely, the bearcat appeared to have fallen asleep at the side of his cot, soft strands of straw-colored hair brushing the back of his hand. He should wake her up, tell her to scram. But his head was swimming, and it was a nice change to have someone at his bedside, even if it _was_ the bearcat. Brienne, her name was Brienne. A deep sleep claimed him once more, haunted by more disjointed dreams, sounds, and voices.

* * *

 

Cersei sat beside him, her soft, warm hand in his. The fingers of her other hand threaded through his hair, familiar and sensual. He waited for her to say something, anything, but every time she opened her mouth, a jumble of voices drowned her out. Voices that reveled in spite. The bearcat, hissing and growling, not one whit the bluenose he knew her to be. That warm pressure from his dream was pulling away, but he held on fiercely. He wanted the rough voices to go away, to tell the bearcat, _Brienne,_ that it was all Jake. He wanted to say something, but he was struggling through molasses, slow and thick, holding onto his Cersei’s hand like a life raft—but something was off. _Warm, broad, callused—_ the bearcat’s hand, flexing in his own. The jumble of voices continued, loud then soft then loud again, and he was pulled awake.

“—in here with the Kingslayer, Sheba?” It sounded like one of the extras. _Red Ron?_ he wondered, trying to place the voice.

“He your daddy now?” Thick, smarmy twang. _Hyle Cunt._ _Gods,_ Jaime couldn’t stand the man, running around like Ron’s lackey. The bearcat was trying to stutter out some kind of denial, but was cut off mid-word. He tried to make a fist, her hand in his.

“Looky that, Hyle!” Ron crowed. “Mrs. Grundy holding his hand! Think she was trying to get some petting while he couldn’t say no?”

Jaime gripped her harder.

“Ron,” he heard the mock sadness in the other man’s voice, “I do believe she no longer carries a torch for me.” More laughter, harsh against the headache still throbbing through his head.

His head was swimming, the voices becoming an indistinct wash of sound. _“Leave,”_ he heard Brienne growl finally, short nails digging into the palm of his hand, and finally, he was blanketed in quiet, drifting once more.

A cool, damp cloth ran across his forehead, and he finally opened his eyes to meet the bearcat’s— _Brienne’s,_ their blue just as astonishing as he remembered. Her brow was furrowed, her hand gentle as she wiped the dust away. He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Hush, Kingslayer— _Jaime.”_ He rankled at the hated moniker, at the hint of distaste in her eyes. Oh, if only she knew, if only they all knew….

“I’ve missed seeing that…look on your face,” he rasped through a dry throat, wishing for a glass of water. “Kingslayer,” he muttered. “Saved _honorable_ Ned Stark’s…studio, saved half of Sunset _fucking_ Boulevard, probably saved a few bastards on this set,” Jaime saw the confusion on the bearcat’s face. “You’ve heard of wildfire? Dynamite?” Brienne nodded slowly, once more trying to free her hand, but he held on all the more tightly.

“Aerys… _loved_ fire. Explosions. Used to set the bins on fire for whoopee, give the costume girls a good scare. Always had a…lighter. Liked those…Chinese…firecrackers,” Jaime murmured, fighting to stay conscious, to make her _understand_. “He hated all the cowboys. Thought they were trying to be the new King…of the West. Couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag,” he chuckled dryly. “Just wanted their five clams a day, ’s all.”

“He was off the deep end, bearcat. Mad King, they started to call him,” and he felt urgent, desperate. He needed someone to know, her to know. “Put boxes of the stuff under the sets… _dynamite._ How many people…on that set? Two biggest studios…in Hollywood, we were making _The King of the West Meets…Aurochs Ace._ We wrapped, he shared some…panther sweat with me. We were just, gods… _zozzled_ ,and he said to me, said, ‘Ace…gonna blow this set up in the morning.’ I was so gone…passed out. Woke up that morning, couldn’t find him.” He glanced at Brienne, her eyes wide, taking in his tale carefully. “I remembered what he said, looked for ‘im.” Exhaustion was slurring his words, pulling him down again, but _not yet._ “There he was, detonator in his hands. Told ‘im to s-s-stop, but he kept—pulling up the handle. All the crew inside. Pulled m’gun, jus’ t’ scare ‘im, but ‘m not the shot I was,” and he vaguely waved his right arm at Brienne. With all of his strength, he yanked on her hand, pulling until her face was inches from his. “I’d do it _again_ , bearcat,” he hissed as his vision narrowed, a black tunnel where he could see nothing but _blue, blue, blue_ at the end _._ The pain in his head flared to sudden, burning life, and she seemed at once very, very far away. Jaime thought she called his name, and he clutched her hand like a lifeline before the world went black once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Five clams a day’ is a reference to the fact that a lot of cowboys became movie extras instead, because they could earn $5.00 each day of work, which was more than they would earn in a week of cattle drives.
> 
> Some cowboys became famous actors, notably Tom Mix, who was a prolific silent movie actor; hence Aerys’ fear that one of the cowboy extras would be trying to replace him.
> 
> _Bearcat,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Bluenose,_ an excessively puritanical person, a prude  
>  _Jake,_ okay, all right  
>  _Daddy,_ a young woman’s older lover  
>  _Mrs. Grundy,_ a prude  
>  _Sheba,_ a woman with sex appeal  
>  _Petting,_ kissing with passion, and then some  
>  _Carry a torch,_ hopelessly in love  
>  _Bin,_ trash can, garbage pail  
>  _Whoopee,_ a good time  
>  _Clam,_ dollar  
>  _Off the deep end,_ go crazy  
>  _Zozzled,_ drunk  
>  _Panther sweat,_ whiskey


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ikkiM for the marvelous beta!

Brienne spent the next hour or so mulling over Jaime’s story, occasionally wringing out her flannel in the basin and wiping his forehead with it. She wondered what it must be like, to have held onto a secret such as that for so many years. And she wondered why, of all people, he had told it to _her_.

Jaime made a grumbling sound as he turned over on his cot. She watched as his face twisted into a frown. He finally gave a great sigh before opening his eyes to meet hers. She drew in a sharp breath at their vivid green. “Water,” he rasped, and Brienne helped him sit up before handing him the tin cup sitting next to her. There was a small twinge in her chest as he gave her a soft, muzzy smile before bringing the cup to his lips. Water ran in small rivulets through the silver-and-gold stubble on his jaw, down his corded throat, before soaking into the soft-looking chambray of his shirt. Her eyes snapped back up to his face when she realized she was staring, and she felt a dark blush suffuse her face. Jaime was looking at her over the silver rim, a thoughtful pucker between his eyebrows.

“Can’t get you pegged, bearcat,” he finally said, setting the cup down. He rubbed a cautious hand over the back of his head, wincing a bit. Brienne imagined he must have a doozy of a knot there.

“My name is Brienne,” she mumbled and shrugged, fighting to keep her face neutral, “and there’s not much to get.” She plucked her Stetson from the ground, placed it on her head, and adjusted the brim, something to keep her hands busy.

“Hm.” He gave her an appraising look, then shrugged, turned, and dropped his feet to the ground. He suddenly got to his feet, and Brienne lunged to hers as well as he swayed dangerously, clasping his elbows to steady him. _“Shit,”_ he mumbled as she eased him back to his cot, worried. He shook his head, looked up at her. She felt awkward, standing over him as she was. “Help me back to my tent, bearcat?” he asked, holding out his good hand. His voice was all innocence, but the gleam in his eye seemed almost lewd. Brienne shook her head, rolled her eyes, and grabbed his offered arm. She helped him to his feet, keeping a tight grasp on his arm, but suddenly he pitched forward, pressed flush against her. Brienne tried to swallow through a suddenly dry throat, flustered at his nearness as she braced him against herself, tried to get him steady on his feet. “Terribly sorry about this,” he murmured, his head falling to her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck in the stifling tent. His voice rumbled through her, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. And he didn’t sound a _whit_ sorry.

 _“Jaime,”_ she grunted, finally moving him back onto his own feet. Stepping to his side, she pulled his left arm over her shoulder, her right arm going around his narrow waist.  

Brienne squinted against the early evening light as they made their slow way through the opening in the tent. The setting sun cast a reddish glow on the tents, long shadows trailing behind them. Jaime was becoming steadier on his feet as they moved along, thank gods. They’d almost reached his tent when she heard the dinner bell, ringing through the still air.

“I hear cornbread and chili calling my name, bearcat.” Jaime bumped into her side. “C’mon, dinner’s on me. Literally, if you like.” The grin he aimed at her was near devastating. She huffed and rolled her eyes, imagined him with chili dripping from his golden hair and tried not to smile.

“Has a line like that ever worked for you?” she grumbled instead, turning toward the mess tent, and she felt Jaime’s silent laughter, shaking at her side.

“Never stop calling me on my malarkey,” Jaime sighed, shaking his head. _No chance of that,_ Brienne thought. She peered into the large tent ahead of them, a large thing with open sides, a mess of picnic tables beneath. “At least Baelish’ll know I’m still kicking.” _Baelish,_ Brienne thought sourly. Gods, the man made her skin crawl. She didn’t understand how a woman like Catelyn Stark could consider him to be such a close friend, but the world was a strange place.

Brienne steered them to an open table near the edge of the tent, where she hoped they could catch a breeze. “Try to keep your nose clean while I’m gone,” she muttered, trying not to look too pleased as he chuckled before wincing and rubbing his forehead. She paused, concerned. “Everything copacetic?”

“It will be once I get some chow. Get a wiggle on, bearcat!” Brienne narrowed her eyes at him. _Gods,_ he was insufferable. He gave her an easy grin, delight clear on his face. She stomped up to the line and grabbed two shallow tin bowls.

Just her luck, Ron and Hyle were right behind her.

“Hidy, Mrs. Grundy.” Brienne attempted to ignore them as the line moved forward, grabbing two spoons—which of course escaped neither man’s notice. “Hyle, she ain’t talking to us. D’you think she’s too much of a big cheese, now she’s got the Kingslayer as her daddy?”

“Kingslayer’s Quiff,” Hyle sniggered quietly as Walda spooned chili onto Brienne’s plates. She returned Walda’s beaming, dimpled smile with a somewhat stiff one of her own. _Kingslayer’s Quiff, indeed. Words are wind, Brienne_ , she reminded herself. Next was Podrick Payne, stuttering out a hello as two squares of warm cornbread, oleo melting on top, were placed on her plates. Brienne gave the boy a smile, and nodded when he asked if she’d be needing his help with sets the next day.

Brienne walked back to the table where she’d left Jaime, whose back was to her. Mr. Baelish was sitting across from the Kin— _Jaime,_ she reminded herself—she’d recognize that ridiculous moustache and top hat anywhere. She moved closer, not wanting to interrupt, but the bowls were _heavy._ “—such a…shame you were incapacitated like that. Are you sure you don’t need more time off?” Brienne heard him say, that odd, almost sibilant voice getting her back up. She placed a bowl in front of Jaime without warning, sitting beside him with her own. Baelish looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Bernice,” he finally said.

 _“Brienne,”_ she corrected him, Jaime saying her name in unison. She looked at him in surprise, and he raised an eyebrow as if to say, _What?_ She rolled her eyes and turned back to Baelish, who continued to eye her with distaste.

“So…good of you to help Mr. Lannister here.” Brienne would swear he was sneering. “Not sure what we’d have done without your _help_.”

“True, very true,” Jaime agreed at her side, and she turned to stare at him, a little flabbergasted. He was staring at Baelish, though, a false, glittering smile planted firmly on his lips, the two men staring at each other, the tension becoming unbearable.

“Well,” Petyr finally stood, twirling one side of his moustache as he gazed down at the two of them. “Good day, Mr. Lannister. We shall see you in the morning.” He turned and left the tent, but Brienne still had an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach. She turned to see Jaime watching him leave as well, eyes narrowed as he tapped one finger on his lips.

“I don’t trust that man,” he muttered thoughtfully. Brienne nodded hesitantly, not sure if her opinion was welcome. “Ah well,” Jaime said with a smile, finally turning his head to look at her. “At least I’ve got you around, bearcat.”

“It’s _Brienne,”_ she hissed, and his laughter filled her ears.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, time for your lesson in slang!
> 
>  _Pegged,_ figured out  
>  _Bearcat,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Doozy,_ something outstanding, exceptional  
>  _Line,_ flirtatious talk  
>  _Malarkey,_ nonsense  
>  _Keep your nose clean,_ stay out of trouble  
>  _Copacetic,_ all right  
>  _Chow,_ food  
>  _Get a wiggle on,_ hurry up  
>  _Mrs. Grundy,_ a prude  
>  _Big cheese,_ an important person  
>  _Daddy,_ a young woman's older lover  
>  _Quiff,_ a woman of loose morals  
>  _Oleo,_ a substance similar to margarine


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime steals from Brienne, then defends her honor.

“I don’t trust that man,” Jaime muttered. He cast a glance at Brienne, sitting beside him. She nodded slowly, a solemn look in her eyes. “Ah well.” He grinned and nudged her in the side. “At least I’ve got you around, bearcat.”

Her back straightened, her eyes narrowed. “It’s _Brienne,”_ she hissed at him. He was reminded of Mama, the best mouser at Casterly Ranch. Mama would hiss and spit at the hound dogs, all floppy ears and slobbery enthusiasm, when they got too close to her kittens. Jaime couldn’t help but laugh as he thought of the comparison. He shook his head, picked up his spoon, and tucked into his chili.

Brienne stood up again a few minutes later, jostling his left arm as he tried to maneuver a spoonful of chili to his mouth. He frowned as it spilled back in his bowl. _So many years now,_ he thought, _and spoons are still so hard._ He dug the utensil back in, shrugging off her mumbled apology, and she walked off. Her plate was still full; he knew his bearcat would be back.

He was hunched over his bowl, propping the back edge up with his prosthetic hand to get the last spoonsful of chili, when he heard a commotion behind him. Loud voices, familiar, a little slurred—oh Gods, some of the crew were already scrooched. Ah well, thank the Seven, they usually left him alone. He was sopping up the last of the tomato juice with his cornbread when the slurred voices rose again. He heard snatches of their conversation, most of it seeming to be about some woman in the camp, none of it flattering. “Hidy, Mrs. Grundy!” he heard one of the men whoop—and suddenly he recognized the voices. _Gods,_ Red Ron and Hyle Cunt. _Of fucking course._ Suddenly, two tin cups filled with water were placed near his right elbow, and Brienne was sitting next to him once more. Her back was stiff as a board, her face that particularly ugly shade of red it got when she was well and truly angry. Jaime realized— _Brienne_ was Mrs. Grundy, _Brienne_ was the woman they’d been talking about. He had a vague recollection of them being in Doc Pycelle’s tent…maybe? Mocking voices, _Kingslayer, Sheba, daddy…_

He felt his own back stiffen, his bowl clattering to the table as he began to turn, but Brienne’s grip on his arm— _his right arm—_ stopped him. He met her gaze, her eyes fierce on his, blazingly blue. “Words are _wind,”_ she whispered harshly. He looked down to where her fingers were digging harder into the flesh of his forearm, and felt only a distant sense of wonder. People didn’t touch him—they didn’t pat him on the back, or shake his hand, or any of the number of inconsequential touches he hadn’t known he’d miss before he’d lost his hand, before he’d become _Kingslayer._ Yet here was the bearcat, her fingers gripping his arm without a second thought. He swallowed, his eyes running up her arm and over her shoulder, covered in worn, soft-looking chambray. His gaze followed the line of her throat, long and strong as the rest of her, over a square chin and resting for a heartbeat on her wide, thick lips before meeting her astonishing eyes once more. He saw a glimmer of confusion there, pink tongue running briefly over her lower lip. His cock twitched in the confines of his Levi’s, a spike of arousal running through him and leaving turmoil in its wake.

He cleared his throat, his gaze flickering away and then returning, and watched as her eyes fell to her hand, still wrapped around his forearm. Her face turned a bright red, freckles standing out in sharp relief as she let go of his arm, turning back to her own bowl of chili.

He watched her for a few moments, before reaching over and stealing her cornbread, taking a large bite and chewing obnoxiously. Brienne narrowed her eyes at him, her spoon still held between her lips. He grinned and threw her a wink, grinning even wider as she rolled her eyes at him and ate another bite of chili.

“You owe me a piece of cornbread,” she huffed. Jaime laughed, forgetting about Ron and Hyle, almost forgetting the arousal he’d felt stirring mere minutes before.

“You really are the berries, bearcat.” Brienne sniffed and had another spoonful of chili, ignoring him. He gave a small chuckle and ate the rest of her cornbread in silence, savoring every last crumb.

* * *

 

He’d convinced Brienne to walk him back to his tent, citing his still-aching head and general wooziness. She’d been reluctant, so he gave her his most charming smile and watched her face turn bright red as she grumbled a _yes._ The glare she sent his way let him know to keep his distance unless he actually got dizzy. He very carefully didn’t think about why he might be so insistent on having her with him.

Jaime was laying on his cot, back in his own tent, turning over the events of the day in his mind as he tried to sleep. He could scarcely believe how different things had been when he first woke up compared to now—cut off the tracks by the skin of his teeth, one hell of a concussion, and Brienne by his side the whole time. He tried to remember the last time someone had stuck by him so steadfastly. Nothing came to mind.

His train of thought wandered back to dinner, the odd exchange with Petyr Baelish, Hyle and Ron’s nasty words, the unexpected thrum of lust when he’d looked at Brienne, her fingers clasping his arm.

A sudden commotion outside the tent shook him from his thoughts. He was on his feet in a jiffy, pulling aside the flap of his tent to peer outside. Two figures stumbled by with their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing loudly and off-key, well and truly corked. Their faces were dimly lit by an oil lantern clutched in the one’s hand.

 _Seven. Fucking. Hells._ He really, _really_ didn’t want anything to do with these bozos ever again, but especially not today, not when what little patience he normally possessed was hanging on the raggedy edge. He was about to duck back into his tent when Hyle spied him, a dopey smile lifting his face. _Mother, give me patience._

“Kingslayer!” he crowed, lurching in Jaime’s direction and pulling Ron with him, both men swaying back and forth.

“Howdy, boys.” Jaime didn’t even bother pretending to smile. Both men fell into a fit of giggles before quieting once more, Ron pulling a small flask from his pocket and taking a long pull from it. He smacked his lips and passed it to Hyle, who took a drink before offering it to Jaime. There was still a string of saliva from his mouth to the flask. Jaime shook his head once, briskly, trying to hide his revulsion. Best cut this off before it turned into a long-winded bull session. “I’ll just be heading in for the night.”

“Bet he’s got Brienne the Sheba hiding in there,” Ron stage whispered, Hyle snickering along with him. They were drunk enough to likely think they were being quiet, but Jaime heard them with crystal clarity. _Words are wind,_ he reminded himself, unclenching his fist. But then he heard it— _Kingslayer’s quiff,_ muttered with such smug venom that Jaime scarce knew what he’d planned before he’d bashed the man across the face with his iron hand. As Ron fell, his flailing arms brought Hyle down with him. The sharp scent of whiskey filled the air as the flask flew from Hyle’s hand, the contents splashing every which way as it tumbled to the ground. They landed in a heap, Ron clutching his nose and dripping blood into the dust. Jaime’s stump and arm throbbed with a vicious, fiery pain.

“You are speaking about a _lady,”_ Jaime growled. “Her name is Brienne. _Let me hear you say it.”_ He could barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, the sound of his ragged breaths as he fought the nausea rolling through him. But he refused to show an ounce of weakness in front of these sorry excuses.

 _“Brienne,”_ Ron said, spitting a gob of blood and saliva to the side. Hyle was flailing in the dirt, finally rolling over onto his hands and knees and staggering to his feet.

“ _Leave_. Gods as my witness, if you ever hope to work in this town again, keep your filth to yourselves,” Jaime threatened, menacing as he could sound. Hyle was nodding frantically, helping Ron to his feet and tugging him away, but Ron couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“Might not be around much longer anyways, Kingslayer.” The two disappeared into the night, and Jaime watched them leave. What did he care if the man quit the business anyway? When he was confident they were gone, he went back into his own tent, sitting heavily on the side of his tent and cradling his right arm with his left.

Jaime took in a few deep breaths, willing the throbbing, sick-making feeling to leave his arm. When it finally dulled, he slowly, clumsily rolled up his right sleeve and pulled off his glove, checking the area where the leather sleeve of the prosthesis wrapped around his flesh. As he’d feared, the thick wool pad he used to protect his stump from chafing showed spots of blood. He pulled the glove back on, pushed the sleeve back down, and gathered the little rucksack he kept under his bed with bandages, salve, and a bottle of laudanum. He headed into the night, hoping his bearcat would prove to be as helpful now as she’d been this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bearcat,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Scrooched,_ drunk  
>  _Mrs. Grundy,_ a priggish or prudish person  
>  _Sheba,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Daddy,_ a young woman’s older lover  
>  _The berries,_ something excellent, outstanding  
>  _Bozo,_ a stupid or foolish person  
>  _Corked,_ drunk  
>  _Bull session,_ an informal conversation  
>  _Sheba,_ a sexy or seductive woman  
>  _Quiff,_ a woman of loose morals  
>  _Laudanum,_ tincture of opium, used to treat a multitude of conditions, mostly pain relief


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne plays Florence Nightingale, and also takes off Jaime's shirt.

It was dark in Brienne’s small tent, just a dim yellow light from the lantern to aid her as she finished getting ready for bed. She’d washed the day’s dirt from her neck and face, and was buttoning up the top of her pajamas—a cotton set in wide blue-and-white stripes with a V-neck emphasized by wide lapels. They had once belonged to her father, the elastic in the trousers saggy with age, the fabric soft and worn, and they hung loose even on her large frame. 

Brienne moved to the lantern next to her bed, blew it out, and climbed under the wool blanket on her cot. It had been an exhausting day—a downright humdinger of a day—and she was ready to put it behind her. She just couldn’t seem to stop turning over the day’s events in her mind. She never could have anticipated that her opinion of someone—especially someone as notorious as the Kingslayer himself—would change so quickly. She’d always relied on her gut, had avoided more messes than she could count because of it, and her gut said he’d been telling the truth about Aerys Targaryen. 

She couldn’t think of a more contradictory person than Jaime Lannister. He teased her relentlessly, calling her ‘bearcat’ and trying to embarrass her. But he’d wanted to defend her when Ron and Hyle had started up with her today. And he’d looked at her in the mess like—like— 

She huffed out a breath and rolled over, punching the feather pillow into shape before lying her head back down. 

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but it didn’t feel like very long before she was being awoken by a weight on her bed and a strong hand shaking her shoulder roughly. She acted on instinct, rearing up to grab the wrist with one hand and pulling the other back in a fist. 

“ _Bearcat_ ,” a voice hissed, and the hand let her shoulder go. _Of course_ Jaime had let himself into her tent in the middle of the night. It was pitch black, and she couldn’t have seen her hand in front of her face, but she knew the sound of his voice, strained though it sounded. 

Brienne dropped her arm and fumbled with the lantern, finding the box of long matches and shaking one out. Jaime’s breathing was loud and uneven, and she was starting to think necessity had brought him here, rather than boredom or impulse. A whiff of sulfur singed her nose as she struck the match, the small light casting stark shadows up his face. He looked almost pained. She turned to light the lantern, adjusting the knob on the side so it glowed brighter. She felt mostly awake now, turning back to look at her visitor, and swallowed down her gasp at his appearance. He looked— _ill_ , for lack of a better word, deep lines bracketing his mouth, the tendons standing out in his throat. 

“Jaime,” she breathed, half a question. He gave her a small smile—just a twitch of his lips, really—and shrugged. Brienne sighed. “What are you _doing_ here, Jaime?” 

“I hurt my arm,” he gritted out, “bad enough that I really can’t dress it myself.” He looked simultaneously defiant and shamefaced, if such a thing were possible. A small rucksack was retrieved next to his feet and dropped into her lap. She opened it to find rolls of cotton bandages, a large tin, and a small brown glass bottle. She looked up from the bag, only to let her gaze drop to his right arm. She noticed how his left hand clasped his right wrist, his right arm tucked close to his body. 

“Do you—that is, is it your—um—” Brienne felt at a loss. Jaime’s lack of a hand was the most open secret she’d come across, but no one actually mentioned it to _him_ of all people. His jaw clenched, an ugly sneer crossed his face—and he was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. She faltered though, wondering if she’d offended him, her fingers tightening around the rucksack still in her lap. 

“My _stump_?” he spat, and she flinched. “I know you’re a woman—” A cruel smile crossed his face, sharp as a razorblade. His eyes roamed slowly from her hair, a nest of tangled straw, over her twice-broken nose, and seemed to linger on her almost nonexistent breasts. He shrugged. “Well, I assume you are at any rate, but don’t tell me you can’t stomach it.” 

Brienne felt something sink inside at his awful words. He seemed to target her every insecurity with unflinching accuracy. Rage washed through her, white-hot, and she stood abruptly, towering over him. Her fists clenched at her sides as she struggled to contain herself. “ _Leave_ ,” she growled, chest heaving, pointing at the opening of her tent. The razorblade smile fell from his face, and his gaze dropped for a moment before meeting hers again. 

“Forgive me,” he rasped. After a long pause, he added, “That was unworthy.” 

Brienne scowled at him for several long moments, gauging his sincerity, then sank slowly back to her cot. She nodded once, stiffly. She waited for him to speak, to tell her what to do. 

“I need you to help me unbutton my shirt.” He ground the words out, frustration clear in his tone. 

Brienne gawped, wondering if he could possibly be serious. 

Jaime sighed. “There’s a strap that runs across my chest and loops around my left shoulder.” 

She tried to think of something intelligent to say, but just kept staring.

"I can’t take off the hand without undoing the strap,” he muttered. His eyes shifted to the side, no longer looking at her. “I can do most things all right on my own, but this hurts like a sumbitch, and I really need the help.” _Oh._

Brienne reached trembling hands to the first button of the same chambray shirt he’d been wearing at dinner, her knuckles brushing the underside of his stubbled jaw. She kept her eyes on her hands, refusing to look at him. She wondered if this particular blush would ever go away, hot as her face felt in that moment. A second button, then a third—her knuckles brushed against the hollow at the base of his throat, then the thin leather strap that crossed his sternum. His white knit undershirt was soft and warm against the backs of her fingers. She undid the fourth and fifth buttons, and as she fumbled with the last button, she felt him draw in a sharp breath as her nails accidentally scraped his stomach. She glanced up to mumble a quick apology, and saw his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw tight—he must be in a lot of pain, she thought. She tugged on his left sleeve, holding it taut as he pulled his left arm out, then gently easing the other sleeve off his injured arm. 

“D—do you normally sleep with this on?” Brienne stuttered, breaking the silence. 

Jaime shrugged with one shoulder. “Depends on the day. But usually I take it off at night, put it on in the morning.” 

Brienne nodded slowly, taking a moment to inspect his prosthesis. A thin leather strap circled his left shoulder, crossing his chest to disappear into the top of a white knit sleeve. The sleeve was tucked into a brown leather cuff, tightly laced, which ran almost halfway up his forearm. He still wore the black glove over his hand, and Brienne didn’t wait to ask—she simply tugged it off, taking only a moment to notice the slight padding of the glove. She fought to keep her face as neutral as she could, but almost couldn’t help gaping when she saw his hand. Brienne couldn’t have said what precisely she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. The hand was almost elegant, slender metal fingers with joints like a real hand. It reminded her almost of a skeleton she’d seen as a child when the circus had come to town, one of the most fascinating sideshows she’d ever witnessed. But Jaime was starting to fidget, and she was suddenly reminded how horribly uncomfortable this must be for him. She cleared her throat. “What now?” she asked briskly. Jaime was looking at her, almost warily, as though waiting for her to say something else. 

“The strap unbuckles,” he muttered, shifting his left shoulder back, and Brienne noticed the fingers of his prosthetic curl inward. 

“How did you do that?” she asked, intrigued. Jaime looked at her oddly, as though he didn’t understand what she’d said. He seemed to shake himself after a moment, and swallowed hard. 

“The strap,” he mumbled. “It’s attached to a spring in the hand, and when I tighten the strap, the spring pulls back on the fingers.” She bent her head to take a closer look and touched one of the fingers curiously, surprised at the warmth of the metal—and heard a soft gasp above her. She jerked back guiltily, remembering that Jaime was injured and probably feeling impatient. She made quick work of the buckle, then started unlacing the leather cuff. She’d wondered how he was able to tie the cuff, but saw that it was laced in a continuous S shape, the long end tucked under and looped into a half-bow. 

Brienne unhooked the hand, the cuff still attached, and set it on the cot next to Jaime as he gave a pained groan. She pulled her lantern closer to get a look and noticed the white sleeve, which she now saw covered his left arm from stump to bicep, had a spreading patch of dark red over his wrist. “Oh,” she gave a small gasp, her fingers fluttering awkwardly, unsure how to proceed. 

“ _Shit,_ that throbs,” Jaime hissed out, his left hand wrapped around his forearm. Brienne waited. “It looks worse than it is,” he said through clenched teeth. “The skin is thin, I think it split open.” She nodded. “It bleeds like a stuck pig but there’s nothing else for it.” He tried to smile, more of a pained grimace. “Use the sleeve to stop the bleeding, the tin has salve, and merciful Mother, give me the godsdamn laudanum.” She hurried to open the little glass bottle, smelling strongly of alcohol, and put a dropperful under his tongue. He gave a small noise of disgust as she screwed the lid back on, but said nothing further. 

She rolled off the sleeve and did as he’d said, holding it against the slow trickle of blood until it finally stopped. She found the tin in the sack and opened it to find a thick, greasy ointment smelling strongly of cloves and dotted with bits of green—dried herbs, she imagined. She smeared it over the swollen, bruised flesh, taking care to avoid the broken skin, and wound one of the bandages neatly over the end of his arm. 

“There,” she finished with a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on her once more. She picked up the bandages, the salve, and the laudanum and put them all in the little bag Jaime had brought. She tied the top and glanced up, finally noticing him staring at her, his eyes wide and dark and shining in the dim light. She wondered if the medicine had finally taken effect. 

Jaime sighed, a great heaving thing. “’m tired,” he said, his lids drooping. He began to slump towards her, his head sliding against her shoulder, and she resigned herself to a night’s sleep on the small rug next to her cot. She twisted to lay Jaime’s head on her pillow, and he muttered things about sapphire stars and freckled constellations before sleep finally claimed him. Brienne took a moment to look at him, admire the line of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the sweep of his golden hair. She blew out the lantern, sleep claiming her soon as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A diagram showing how to tie shoes (and other items) with one hand: http://www.fieggen.com/shoelace/onehandedknot.htm
> 
> The very, very steampunk prosthetic hand I envision Jaime having: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bIFElKlPf50/Um6IU3P7i0I/AAAAAAAAAuw/QBdIzBrLZnk/s1600/victorian+prosthetic+original2.jpg


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime dreams. Midnight confessions. How'd Jaime lose that hand, anyway?

Jaime was back on the tracks, the train bearing down on him as he laid there helpless. _Please,_ he begged Cersei, _save me._ But she looked at him with the same cruel sneer he’d been leveled by the last time he saw her, and she walked away. _Cersei!_ he screamed as the train came closer and closer, almost there, the stench of hot metal filling his nostrils, the wind from the train blowing his hair. But then calm blue was all he could see, strong hands pulling him to safety, and—

Jaime wrenched awake, sitting straight up in his cot. He shuddered as he remembered Cersei’s eyes, hard and glinting green, like shards of a glass bottle. And he remembered the warmth of Brienne’s gaze as she rescued him. He drew in a deep breath and released it on a sharp sigh, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Are you all right?” A quiet voice came from the dark, a large, warm hand touched his arm, and Jaime started before remembering—he wasn’t in his cot, and he wasn’t in his tent. Memories from the night before trickled into his mind. He remembered Ron and Hyle, and coming to Brienne’s tent, hoping she would help patch him up. He recalled how gentle she’d been last night, as gentle as the previous afternoon in Doc Pycelle’s tent. The bandage was still wrapped snugly around his arm, and his stump throbbed dully. The pain was mild compared to what he’d expected. She’d helped him so well even when he’d been despicable, and had forgiven him with more ease than he deserved.

“Who’s Cersei?” Brienne asked quietly, giving his forearm a small squeeze—his right arm, he noticed with the small part of his mind not whirling at her question. He must have called Cersei’s name in his sleep, he thought with a sigh. He wondered how much he could trust her, and even though he’d really only come to hold a further regard for her in the past day, he found that he didn’t want to set her against him so soon. But the dark of her tent combined with her gentleness afforded him some grit. He took a deep breath and told her about Cersei, his beautiful cousin. She’d come to live on Casterly Ranch when they were both six, right after her parents died. He told Brienne about all the lazy afternoons in the hayloft, dreaming of running away to Hollywood together, of becoming famous actors in the motion pictures. He told her about how Cersei had been his only companion, how he’d loved her and no one else for so many years. The warmth of Brienne’s hand pressed to his arm kept him grounded throughout the telling.

“She was…everything,” he finished hoarsely, the dreamlike quality of the tent loosening his tongue. Memories rushed in, the pain associated with them dulled by time. He knew now that he’d loved the idea of Cersei more than he’d actually loved her, just as she’d loved the idea of him.

Fabric rasped against itself as Brienne shifted in the dark. “I’m sorry,” she murmured after a long pause. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Jaime laughed, rueful. “Have I scared you off, bearcat?” He was surprised to realize how much he cared about her answer. Intimacy with a first cousin was borderline scandalous, even in the great state of Texas. Brienne didn’t speak for a few moments, the sound of her breathing and his heartbeat the only things he could hear in the quiet.

“No,” she said quietly, “I don’t believe so.” Jaime wondered what she was thinking as they sat in silence. He began to fidget, the stillness becoming almost oppressive as he struggled with what to say next. “What happened?” Brienne asked, sounding almost hesitant.

Jaime heaved a sigh, fingers running through his hair as he thought back so many years ago. He thought again of his dream, of Cersei’s cruel sneer as she turned her back on him. “I lost my hand,” he finally answered. Brienne was silent, waiting for him to continue. “I _disgusted_ her,” he told Brienne, pained laughter in his voice. “She fucked every stable boy and neighboring Kettleblack, and I was faithful, but _I_ disgusted _her._ ” Jaime shook his head. “Tyrion tried to warn me, but I refused to listen until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.” Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe was a golden fool he’d been. The silence stretched on, and Jaime thought, _this is it. This is when she tells me to leave, and nothing I say will change her mind._

But Brienne surprised him once again, breaking the silence. “She sounds narrow. And pitiful.” She cleared her throat. “How did you…lose your hand?” she asked.

“The Brave Companions,” Jaime sighed. “A group of cattle thieves in Texas. I was keeping an eye on the herd one night, scaring coyotes and whatnot. They came out of nowhere.” He shook his head. “I shot a few and they ran off, but a stray bullet caught my hand.” He swallowed thickly at the memory. “Gangrene finished what they started.” Jaime stared into the darkness, wishing Brienne would say something. “Come on, bearcat. Kiss me or curse me. _Something,_ ” he muttered. She made a spluttering sound next to him, and Jaime felt a grin stretch across his face. _Oh, she was the bee’s knees._ She seemed to be struggling with words, the sounds of her shifting on the floor the only sound.

“That’s a terrible thing to have had happen,” she finally stumbled out. “But you still came to Hollywood?”

Jaime laughed, dry and humorless. “I woke up after three days delirious with fever. Cersei was nowhere to be seen, but my father came to visit me soon afterward.” Jaime remembered awaking from a small nap after managing to eat some broth, his father standing at the end of his bed with a stern look on his face. “He told me to forget this acting foolishness, and to begin focusing on the ranch. And then he left.” Jaime paused. “I was his _heir,_ you see.”

Brienne made a small sound, as if to say, _go on._

“My father—” Jaime shook his head. “There might not be a more hateful person alive,” he murmured thoughtfully. He wished he were joking. “I found Cersei that night, I reached for her—and the way she looked at me…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s when I knew I had to go. As soon as I was well enough, I packed a sack, grabbed as much cash as I could, and hopped on a train to Hollywood, to give acting a try. And I haven’t been back,” he added, almost defiant.

“Who’s Tyrion?” she asked, curiosity in her tone. Jaime smiled as he thought of his younger brother.

“My little brother. I sent him post every month. One day I wired him enough money for a train ticket.” Jaime shrugged. “He’s a dwarf—you may have heard the rumors. People just don’t care as much out here. I think he’s happier.” Jaime shook himself after a moment. He’d had enough of thinking about his past for the moment. “Your turn under the spotlight, bearcat,” Jaime said, remembered Ron and Hyle suddenly. “Tell me about Ron and Hyle.”

Brienne stayed silent beside him.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne shares more of her story. Jaime starts to get suspicious. A surprising surprise occurs.

“Tell me about Ron and Hyle.”

The words seemed to echo through the darkness of Brienne’s tent, and she sat, stunned by the question. The silence stretched between them like taffy as she grasped desperately for words, wishing that for once she wasn’t as slow-witted as her nanny had always told her she was. But the words slipped and tangled through her mind like silver fish, her tongue stayed thick and heavy in her mouth. It wasn’t until she heard Jaime shift beside her, an impatient sigh breaching the air between them, that she suddenly found her voice.

“I was 19,” she blurted out, the ugly details spilling out into the night and Jaime’s listening ears. She told him about building sets for Renly Baratheon’s _Bronco Kid Rides Again_. It had been her first film, all her previous experience having been sets for local theatre productions. Her father had been so proud, and she so excited.

“I left Northern California with my ticket and my carpet bag, and my father said, ‘Don’t take any wooden nickels.’” She huffed out a laugh, remembering her naïveté. She supposed there was still more of it left than there ought to be. “Ron was on the set. Hyle, too. They started…courting me, I suppose, along with a few other extras.” Brienne paused and scratched absently at the rug she was still sitting on, waiting for Jaime to laugh at the idea. Surprisingly, he stayed silent. “It was a wager to see who could—well—that is—” Brienne floundered, unable to think of a polite way to say it.

“Fuck you?” Jaime asked bluntly.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at his crass words, but she couldn’t deny the truth of them. “Yes,” she whispered finally, shame filling her as she remembered the slurs cast her way after it came to light, while all the men involved got a pat on the back and an _attaboy_. _Your fault,_ they’d told her, _your fault for working a man’s job._ “Hyle got a black eye and a concussion when he pushed too hard,” she admitted, unable to keep a small note of pride from her voice, Hyle’s insistence that she’d been _begging for it_ clear in her mind. “The rest had a scaffolding collapse on them.”

Dim, pearly light was beginning to seep into her tent from the small opening left by the flap of her tent, and Jaime chuckled quietly at her side. Brienne turned to look at him, more a shadow than anything else, the silvery pre-dawn light limning one side of his face.

“I’m glad I took those bastards down last night,” Jaime murmured. “What they were saying about you yesterday, and then to find out all this?”

Brienne gaped at him, slowly putting the pieces together. “Is _that_ what happened to you?” she asked, stunned to think he might have been— _defending her honor_.

Jaime simply shrugged and held up his stump. “Can I get some light in here? I need to redress this.”

Brienne silently turned and reached for her lantern, lighting it easily. She blew out the match and stubbed it in the hard dirt floor, closing the little door of the lantern. She turned back to see Jaime sitting on the edge of her cot, swishing some water around in his mouth before swallowing with a grin.

And _oh,_ he was beautiful in the lamplight, golden hair hanging in his face as he leant forward slightly, slowly unwrapping his arm as it rested in his lap. She felt almost light-headed just looking at him. His sleeveless undershirt clung to his torso, the muscles along his left arm shifting under smooth skin as he finally pulled the bandage free.

Brienne looked away guiltily, realizing she was staring. She shifted her gaze to where Jaime’s right arm ended abruptly, noticing some scabbing and bruising. It still looked swollen, the faint smell of cloves reaching her nose. She pulled his knapsack from under her cot, opening the drawstring at the top and wordlessly placing another rolled bandage by his knee.

Jaime nodded as he caught sight of the bandage. “Can I have the salve?” he asked quietly, and Brienne rummaged in the bag once more, removing the tin. Wordlessly, she twisted off the lid and rose to her knees, the scent of cloves strong and pungent. She pulled his arm closer, daubing the salve over the bruising and scabbing as gently as she could. Next came the long cotton bandage, and she started rolling it over and around his stump.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jaime said, his breath brushing past her ear. She tried to suppress the shudder that wanted to work its way down her spine, instead concentrating on her task. “I’ve been thinking about that train yesterday. Then Connington said something last night.” Brienne paused, looking up to meet his bright green eyes. She hadn’t realized how close they were until just that moment, his gaze dropping as she licked her suddenly dry bottom lip. Jaime cleared his throat and continued. “What if it wasn’t an accident, Brienne?”

Brienne could only blink, stunned. Not an accident? Who would want to kill Jaime? He was obnoxious and arrogant, yes—but wanting him dead? “Why?” was all she could whisper.

Jaime sighed and speared his fingers through his hair. “Think about it, bearcat. Didn’t they check the train schedules?” Brienne nodded slowly, remembering their stop at the nearest depot when the crew had first come to the location. “And last night Ron said, ‘Might not be around much longer anyways’.” Brienne finished wrapping the bandage, tucking in the end. “I thought he meant he was gonna find a new studio to work for, but what if he meant something else?”

Brienne shook her head, still shocked at the idea. “I guess it makes sense, in a strange sort of way.” She’d been there when Baelish had stopped at the train station, kicking her heels in the hot sun for over half an hour, trying to keep the horses calm in their trailers, and should it _really_ have taken that long to get a simple train schedule…? Brienne sighed and looked away, her gaze falling on the opening of her tent, where the light had grown much stronger during their conversation. She whipped back around, fingers tightening around his wrist. “Jaime, you need to get back to your tent!” she whispered urgently, giving him a small shake. “I could lose my job if anyone finds out you’re here!”

Jaime smirked and stood, towering over her as she gazed up at him. He stepped into his boots and picked up the small pile of his clothing and prosthetic hand, then bent to pluck his knapsack from her lap, his gaze moving over her face. “You could come with me, bearcat,” he murmured, grin still in place. Brienne swallowed, unsure at his tone. He straightened and held out his hand, which she cautiously accepted, and Jaime pulled her to her feet so that he was looking up at her now. His gaze ran down and down, and finally rose to meet hers again, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You might want to change first, though.”

Brienne looked down, realizing she was still wearing her father’s old, blue-and-white striped pajamas. “Gods,” she muttered, suddenly embarrassed to be seen in them, and tugged her hand from his. She absently tried to smooth down her hair, knowing it must look like a rat’s nest after her night sleeping on the rug. Jaime, of course, stood before her looking perfectly, deliciously tousled. And he stood looking at her expectantly, raising his eyebrows and looking down at her pajama top briefly before looking back up. Brienne clutched the wide lapels at her throat, startled into hissing, “Not until you _leave._ ”

Jaime chuckled, his eyes bright. “I’ll wait outside your tent, bearcat. Put a wiggle on!” and he ducked out her tent flap, leaving Brienne in silence.

“It’s _Brienne,”_ she finally muttered quietly, knowing Jaime couldn’t hear her. She rinsed out her mouth and dressed as quickly as she was able, throwing on denims and a green flannel shirt in record time, shoving her feet into cotton socks and leather boots. Pulling her Stetson low on her brow, she moved the tent flap to the side. Jaime was waiting for her as he’d said, the knapsack jouncing against his back, looking heavier than it had been—she thought he must have put his prosthetic and sleeve inside from the way it shifted. He was tapping his boot impatiently. Brienne rolled her eyes— _gods,_ the man was impatient. At least he’d put on his shirt, even if it _was_ still hanging loose on his shoulders. “Lead on,” she sighed. He grinned and strode off, Brienne following close behind him.

She knew his tent was on the other side of their small encampment, maybe a five minute walk. They were passing one of the trailers for the horses when she smelled smoke—perhaps Walda was making breakfast? Brienne’s stomach rumbled as she thought of cornmeal and salt pork. The sun had only just risen the smallest bit, pink light glinting off the sand, the clouds tinged purple and orange, and Brienne was enjoying the sheer beauty of the scene when she ran straight into Jaime’s back. He’d come to a sudden halt.

“Jaime!” she cried, or tried to, but Jaime had spun around and clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her behind the horse trailer and pinning her against the side.

“Shh!” he hissed urgently as she struggled and spluttered against him. Brienne jerked her head to the side, her hat falling in the sand, looking at him furiously. _What right does he have to manhandle me?_

“I don’t know _what_ you’re playing at—” But Brienne fell silent at the sudden press of Jaime’s lips to her own. Almost of their own accord, her hands rose to fist in the loose fabric of Jaime’s open shirt as his fingers curled around the back of her neck. _Oh Mother,_ she thought dimly as his tongue traced her bottom lip, _have mercy._ Without another thought, she kissed him back.


	9. Chapter 9

Jaime had simply meant to shush Brienne when he’d kissed her, but Jaime knew he’d be lying if he said the thought of kissing her hadn’t been growing in the back of his mind since last night. 

In the dim glow of her lantern, Brienne had been almost a beauty. She hadn’t turned him away, even after learning the truth about Cersei. He’d been surprised at the green-eyed monster twisting his gut when she’d mentioned being courted on the set of her first movie. It had been so long since jealousy had reared its ugly head, but it was swiftly followed by a quiet rage as she’d revealed their true intent. Jaime couldn’t deny being fascinated, especially when she admitted punching Hyle and sabotaging the scaffolding to collapse on the rest of the men involved. 

Tyrion always said Jaime had an interest in people who defied expectations. He supposed his brother was right. He was quickly becoming intrigued by the puzzle that was Brienne, her quietude and her fire, the way the world kept trying to change her but she stubbornly stayed true to herself. 

Brienne was all awkward lips and hesitant tongue, her fingers pulling his shirt taut around the back of his neck. She tasted like innocence. None of that, or maybe all of that, mattered with the feel of her lips on his. A small, girlish sound spilled into the air between them when Brienne turned her head to take in a breath, and Jaime was brought back to his senses. He was suddenly reminded of the fact that Brienne was pinned between his body and the horse trailer where anyone could see them. The soft, meager swell of her breasts pushing against his chest with each breath was nearly driving him to distraction. A little voice was niggling at the back of his head—wasn’t there a reason he’d pulled her back here in the first place? 

“Ron,” he murmured into Brienne’s neck, his head beginning to clear, and he felt her freeze against him. 

 _“What?”_ she breathed, her voice gone husky, and Jaime swallowed back a groan at the almost sensual tone. 

“I just saw Ron come out of my tent,” he muttered into the thick, heated air, and heard her draw in a sharp breath. “Head over to the mess tent, Brienne. See if you hear anyone talking about anything. I need to check if Ron took anything, then I’ll go look for Baelish.” Jaime took a step back, putting some space between them. 

Brienne’s gaze was darting back and forth, refusing to actually look at him as she drew in rapid breaths. “I really think I should go with you,” she muttered. Her face and neck were flushed red, and even the tips of her ears were a bright crimson— _gods,_ she looked embarrassed, nervously licking her lips, shifting from side to side. Jaime sighed, wondering if he’d pooched this already, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to provoke her. 

 _“Bearcat,”_ he said, and her gaze snapped back to his, eyes narrowing. He grinned and took a step forward, pressing a quick kiss to her wide mouth before stepping back again as she spluttered. “I’ve got this. Go to the mess. We’ll continue this later.” His eyes raked over her flushed features. “If you want.” Jaime smirked and cocked an eyebrow. 

“If I—” Brienne seemed to lose speech, simply gaping at him, her face still red as a tomato. He winked and saluted, striding towards his tent. He didn’t look back as he heard her boots shifting in the sand as she walked away, muttering too low for Jaime to hear. Jaime grinned; he knew his bearcat wouldn’t let him down. 

Another half-minute or so of walking and Jaime had reached his tent. He pulled back the flap to duck inside, only to be met with a cloud of thin, gray smoke. Through the haze, Jaime could see a small fire in the middle of his cot, little flames beginning to lick down the wooden frame. He rushed in, grabbing the tin ewer next to his bed, and upended the contents over his cot. He was met with more smoke and the sound of hissing water, but most of the flames had been put out. The small, thick rug next to the opening of the tent smothered the rest. 

Jaime gazed at his ruined cot, wondering just what in the seven hells he was going to do about Ron. Then he thought of Brienne, alone in the mess tent, and what if Ron was there? _What if she was Ron’s next target?_

Jaime ran for the mess with all his worth, like the Stranger was on his heels. He passed extras and crew members, a few of whom tried to say ‘hello’, but he ignored them. 

When he reached the mess, Brienne was nowhere to be found.


	10. Chapter 10

Brienne regained her wits slowly, picking up her Stetson where it had fallen by her feet. _We’ll continue this later…if you want_ rang in her ears as she wondered whether Jaime had only been messing with her. “Jaime _godsdamn_ Lannister,” she muttered, stumbling away.

Jaime had asked her to go to the mess and listen for any gossip, so Brienne made a small detour to her tent to get her notepad and a pencil, just in case she needed to jot something down. She pulled the tent flap aside, taking a step into the darkness of her tent. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and she had to stifle a small yelp of surprise as she realized Petyr Baelish was sitting on her cot. Next to his shiny patent leather shoes, her carpet bag lay haphazardly, the contents hanging over the sides as though someone had gone through it recently.

A cold dread filled her as she lifted her gaze from the patterned bag, rising slowly to meet Petyr Baelish’s eyes, calculating under the brim of his ever-present top hat. A small, sharp smile tipped up one corner of his mouth, his forefinger and thumb absently twisting one side of his pointed moustache, as was his habit. Brienne swallowed thickly, unable to think of a thing to say, only knowing Baelish’s presence in her tent couldn’t be anything good.

“Brenda,” he said, rising from her cot. His voice was as smooth and oily as his movements.

Brienne didn’t think now was the best time to correct him on her name, and kept silent, waiting for an explanation as to his presence in her tent and her clearly ransacked bag. He followed her gaze, looking down at her carpet bag, then looked back up at her. His sly smile said he knew she knew he’d been looking through it—and there was nothing she could do about it. She clenched one fist at her side, alarm bells ringing in her head. _Baelish was definitely up to something._

“When Catelyn informed me you’d be working on this set, I had my reservations.” Brienne startled at the mention of Mrs. Stark, remembering in a rush that Baelish had been a childhood friend of Cat’s. She wondered where this conversation was going as his smile turned cruel. “I heard about the business on the _Bronco Kid_ set, but Cat assured me there wouldn’t be another issue with you distracting the men.”

Brienne felt as though she’d been slapped in the face at Baelish’s casual mention of _Bronco Kid_ and his conversation with Catelyn Stark, shaking her head mutely. She could hardly believe the older woman capable of such words.

“Now, I hear _rumors_ of you sleeping in the star’s medical tent. I also understand that you had a physical altercation with two crew members last night—after curfew, if I’m not mistaken?” Baelish ran his eyes up and down her form, shrugging casually. “Lastly, but certainly not least, Brenda, Mr. Lannister was seen leaving your tent at an… _indecent_ —” and here he leered, “—hour this morning.”

Brienne’s tongue felt thick in her mouth, her mind gone blank as she tried to wade through the unspoken accusations being thrown at her. It all boiled down to one thing— _Kingslayer’s Quiff._

“Nothing to say in your defense?” Baelish asked, then paused for a moment. He arched one eyebrow as she stayed silent and dumb, the smirk spreading across his face. “I cannot have you disturbing my movie like this, to say nothing of the poor example you’re setting for the costume girls and Walda.”

“I _never—”_ she began fiercely, finally finding her voice, but was swiftly cut off.

 _“Witnesses,”_ Baelish nearly hissed, his pleasure clear. “I have them, Brenda.”

“It’s _Brienne_ ,” she hissed back, just as vehement, both hands clenched in fists now.

Baelish scoffed, waving a hand in the air. “Your name could be Brian, for all I care.” His gaze raked her once more, his smile turning amused. “It would certainly be more fitting.”

Brienne straightened. She needed to find Jaime, discuss this with him, and see if she could find out any more information in the mess. Arguing with this man was a waste of her time. “Mr. Baelish,” she said, as calmly as she was able, “I’m leaving.”

His gaze sharpened at her tone. “Yes, _Brienne,_ you are. Take your things. Ron will be escorting you to the depot. Your pay is being wired there.” Baelish toed her carpet bag closer, the contents threatening to spill out onto the floor. Brienne could hardly believe this was happening.

“I need to speak with Jaime before I leave,” she said, almost desperately. _Gods,_ could Jaime really have been right? Was someone really out to get him, or was she just looking for a reason for being canned?

Baelish scoffed. _“Mr. Lannister_ is none of your concern any longer.”

Brienne bent to pick up her carpet bag, feeling almost numb. _“Ron!”_ she heard Baelish call out, and it was only a moment before she heard the tent flap being opened behind her.

“Sheba,” a smug voice said. Brienne turned slowly to see Ronnet Connington sporting a truly impressive blue-and-purple bruise, his left eye swelled halfway shut. She wondered if Ron was the crewman she’d “attacked” the night before. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Brienne looked longingly beyond Ron, wondering if she could make a run for it or whether the two men could overpower her. She felt her muscles tense unwittingly, ready to spring, but then heard a distinctive _click._ She looked down, frozen in shock, to see a small pistol aimed at her.

“So many accidents happen out in the desert, you know,” Baelish spoke up from behind her in his strange, soft voice. “It’s still the wild west. And girls in Hollywood run off all the time. No one will wonder if you just…don’t come back.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Get on the train. _Brenda_.”

Brienne finally understood. She would be no help to Jaime with a bullet in her belly, and she had no gun to fight back. She prayed to the gods for a miracle, something, anything. Maybe Jaime would decide to stop by her tent, too? Maybe he would see them walking away and stop Ron and Baelish?

But as Ron walked her to a wagon nearby, no one crossed their path. A horse was already hooked up to it, his gun digging into her hip the whole way there. He watched as she climbed into the wagon, the gun never straying from her, then followed her into the bench seat.

They set off for the depot, Brienne trying to understand how everything had changed in so little time, her fingers clutching the worn wooden handles of her carpet bag. She hoped Jaime would be all right. As they jounced along the bumpy roads, Brienne stayed alert. After all, the gods helped those who helped themselves. Maybe it wasn’t too late for that miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Also, I must give huge, HUGE thanks to the always-fabulous ikkiM for the beta. You da best!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Petyr have a little chat.

Jaime scanned the tables under the tent once more, hoping against hope that he’d find her there. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, heart hammering in his chest as he contemplated what might have happened. Brienne had agreed to come to the mess and listen for anything suspicious, and she hadn’t mentioned a detour. Had she gone to the latrine first? Was he just overreacting?

He was trying to choose his next move, whether to wait and see if Brienne would arrive soon, or go looking for her, when he heard a throat clearing behind him. Jaime turned to see Petyr Baelish, his ever-present top hat firmly in place. Jaime smoothed his features, trying to hide his distress. “Can I help you?”

Baelish smiled thinly. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Join me for breakfast?” he invited, but Jaime had other things to do—his bearcat was out there somewhere, and he couldn’t rest easy until he knew where she was.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.” Jaime gave the barest smile, a mere twitch of his lips. He’d had the measure of Baelish long ago; the man cared little for anyone save himself. He wasn’t about to believe that the older man truly wished to have breakfast with him because Baelish _liked_ him.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Baelish replied, his tone as cool as Jaime’s. He gestured to a table behind Jaime, his expression indifferent, his eyes brooking no argument.

“I really must be going,” Jaime gritted out, trying to maintain a façade of civility.

Baelish’s gaze turned flinty, his smile barely more than bared teeth. “As director, I would _dearly_ love to give a glowing report to Catelyn Stark about your cooperation. _Sit.”_

Jaime glared and sat. Baelish indeed had Catelyn’s ear—it was best not to upset her _too_ badly. “Well, I had some excitement I need to share with you. This pans out nicely,” he smirked, unwilling to give Petyr the upper hand too easily.

“Does it?” Baelish inquired, twisting one side of his moustache as they settled on the bench seats. Jaime felt the weight of his expectant stare.

“There was a fire in my tent this morning,” he began casually, deciding suddenly that he wasn’t sure he wanted to mention Ron’s role. Baelish had an inscrutable look on his face. “Don’t worry, though,” Jaime continued blandly, “I put it out before it spread too much. Lots of smoke, though, and my cot’s a bust. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” He thought about sleeping in Brienne’s cot last night, the soundest sleep he’d had in years, surrounded by her smell….

“It just so happens we have an empty tent you can use.” Baelish’s expression turned almost… _delighted,_ if Jaime had to pick a word.

“Oh?” Jaime replied, raising one eyebrow, curious.

Baelish made a small sound of agreement. “One of the crew left early this morning. Quite unexpected.” He looked at Jaime appraisingly, his smirk widening to show sharp white teeth. The fine hairs on Jaime’s arms stood at attention, an uneasy sensation settling in his gut. “Yes, Brenda had to return to Hollywood on an urgent matter.”

Jaime felt his stomach drop. _Brienne?_ “Sorry, who’s Brenda?” he asked, trying to sound bored.

Baelish frowned in thought. “Bernice?” he tried, his lips twisting into a sly smile.

“Brienne?” Jaime suggested, barely keeping his tone civil.

“Brienne? That might have been it. Ah well.” Baelish shrugged his disinterest, though his eyes said otherwise. “She quit this morning. Said something about missing her beau too much?” The director’s tone suggested something lewd.

The uneasy feeling in his stomach grew at Baelish’s words. _He knew Brienne didn’t have a steady. After everything they’d shared last night, that kiss just this morning…she’d have told him about a boyfriend._ Jaime wondered whether she’d been sent away because of her association with him, or whether she’d made up the story to get away from the camp. It didn’t seem like Brienne to act that way, but… _how well do I really know her?_ he thought. He shook his head. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t run.

“Ain’t that the berries?” Jaime drawled, his mind racing, but he knew he couldn’t show a trace of weakness to the man sitting across from him, casually twisting the end of his pointed moustache.

“Quite,” Baelish agreed, pursing his lips. His gaze fell to where Jaime’s arms rested on the table, sharpening as he noticed Jaime’s empty sleeve. “We resume filming the track scene this morning,” he said smoothly, meeting Jaime’s eyes once more. “Will you be ready?”

“Hard to say,” he replied. “I had a little… _situation_ last night.” Jaime gave a hard-edged smile, patting the knapsack still slung over one shoulder. “I can’t wear the prosthetic right now, my arm is too swollen.” He needed to buy himself a few days—hopefully he could determine whether Brienne was back home, safe and sound, or whether she was still in the camp somewhere.

“Not to worry,” Baelish reassured him, and Jaime began to relax a fraction. “We’ll just have one of the costume girls pin the glove to your sleeve. You don’t need to hold anything, no one will ever notice in the theatre.”

Jaime racked his mind, but found himself unable to argue with that. “I’ll meet you at the tracks in an hour, then.”

Baelish stood and nodded, touching the brim of his hat with a smirk before sauntering away. Jaime watched him leave, his suspicions heavy. He grabbed a piece of cornbread from Walda, returning her dimpled smile with a teasing wink of his own, then headed out of the mess. He had an hour to look for his bearcat. He could only hope she was still all right.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne finds out that a carpet bag can come in handy, Jaime finds out what's up with Baelish.

The wagon bounced along the narrow ruts carved into the sunbaked dirt, making its slow way to the train depot. Brienne felt her head bobbling along each time the wagon struck a particularly deep pothole, squeezing the handles of her carpet bag tightly, anxiety making her skin crawl. She tried not to think about Ron sitting next to her, one hand holding the reins and the other a gun pointed at her belly, his finger wobbling on the trigger with every pothole.

They rode mostly in silence, the snorting breaths of the horses, the rasp of the leather tack, and the squeaking of the suspension the only sounds breaking the quiet morning. All the while, Brienne watched and waited, praying to the seven for an opportunity, a sign—anything.

She was so distracted between watching the gun pointed at her, making sure not to be bucked from the bouncing wagon, and praying for Ron’s attention to waver, that she was startled when he spoke.

“Almost to the depot, Sheba.” Ron glanced over at her, a smirk on his loathsome face, before returning his eyes to the rutted path ahead. Brienne kept silent. Ron, undeterred, kept talking. “’S a shame the Kingslayer weren’t around to save you from gettin’ canned.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye, a venomous gleam there. “’S a shame you won’t be seeing him again, neither.”

Brienne’s spine stiffened at his words, her suspicions growing as she glared at him. Was he reminding her that she would have little reason to see Jaime again? Or did he know something she didn't?

“Finally putting it all together?” he asked gleefully. “Can’t be messing up Baelish’s plans like you’ve been doin’, Sheba. You’re lucky he’s just sendin’ you home.”

Brienne’s eyes widened at the implication. She thought about Jaime at the camp with Baelish, still unaware of the director’s scheming.

Ron laughed, a harsh, grating sound, as he slapped his knee with the hand still holding the small pistol. Brienne watched in horror as the gun wobbled in his grasp, terrified that his carelessness would get her killed.

And then her fears were realized, his finger accidentally closing on the trigger. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Brienne felt a stinging in her left cheek before she registered a sharp whistling sound followed by a ringing in her ear, her hair being ruffled by a bullet. Brienne stared at Ron in shock, one hand releasing the handle of her carpet bag to clutch the side of her face. The horses reared in fright at the sudden noise, Ron cursing under his breath and fumbling with the reins, dropping the gun to the footboard as the wagon jerked from side to side. Brienne clung to her bag, bracing herself against the footboard as she swayed violently in her seat.

After a few heart-stopping moments, Ron got the horses back under control, their high-pitched whinnies turning to snorts, their rearing hooves now pawing nervously at the ground. _“Godsdamn,”_ he breathed fervently, his face white as a sheet under the film of grit on his skin, his red beard standing in sharp contrast. With trembling fingers, he bent to pick up the pistol.

Brienne saw her opportunity and seized it. Clutching both handles, she swung the heavy carpet bag at Ron’s face as he straightened back up. His gun dropped back to the floorboards, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. Brienne half-stood and pushed against his chest, and watched with no little satisfaction as Ron fell to the ground.

He laid there for a moment, looking stunned, before gasping in a breath. Brienne wasted no time in grabbing the reins, a sharp “hah!” ringing through the air as she slapped the leather straps on the horses’ rumps. She steered them around, spurring them to a gallop, the wagon’s struts creaking and groaning as it jounced along the heavily rutted road.

Ron was bellowing behind her, “Too late, Sheba! Baelish already has ‘im back on the tracks!” She was half-scared he might have another gun on his person, but she heard no more shots. She raced back to camp, back to _Jaime_ —she could only hope she got to him in time.

* * *

 

Jaime came awake with a jerk, the back of his skull throbbing. He squinted in the late morning sun, trying to get his bearings as he looked first left, then right. Train tracks extended in either direction, digging into his shoulders and lower back. With a sharp sense of déjà vu, Jaime realized he was tied up once more, his arms bound tightly to his sides—and this time, no bearcat to let him loose.

“Mr. Lannister,” a cool voice said above him, and Jaime strained his neck backwards to see Baelish. The man’s face was shadowed by the brim of his top hat, but Jaime could just make out the smug twist of his lips as he twisted his moustache between thumb and forefinger. Hyle stood to Baelish’s side, his gaze darting nervously between Jaime and the director.

“Baelish,” Jaime rasped through his dry throat, falling silent as he waited for the older man to speak. Men like Baelish loved the sound of their own voice. In the meantime, Jaime struggled to collect his wits, tried to remember how he got _here_.

Jaime remembered stopping at the costume tent as he began his search for Brienne, dropping off his glove to the giggling girls there and asking them to pin it to the shirt he’d be wearing that day for filming. He remembered their giggles falling to uncomfortable silence as they finally noticed his empty sleeve. He’d fought against rolling his eyes, instead using his most charming smile and asking if any of them had seen Brienne. They’d shaken their heads, one murmuring _not since yesterday._ He’d thanked them and moved on, scouring every area of the camp to ask if anyone had seen her leave. He was met with mostly blank stares, much of the crew not even knowing who she was.

Jaime had looked into the sky, noting the location of the sun, and knew his hour was done. He’d stopped to get his shirt from the seamstress and made the short walk to the area of the track they were using to film.

He remembered finding Hyle and Baelish there, Hyle carrying a coil of thick rope over his shoulder. Jaime had felt like something was off, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it, his unease growing as Hyle approached him with the rope. He remembered turning back for the camp—filming contract be damned to the seven hells—when a sharp pain bloomed on the back of his head, the golden desert sand dimming as he’d begun to fall.

Jaime was brought back to the present as Baelish finally broke the silence with a small chuckle.

“Isn't it a lovely day to die?” Baelish smirked, letting his words hang in the air for a few moments.

Jaime paused. “Not today,” he replied dryly, remembering the Syrio Forel pulp novels he’d read as a youth.

“Do you want to know why I’m going to kill you?”

“Why bother telling me now?” He would much rather that Baelish leave him in peace.

“I’m telling you now because I want you to spend your last minutes suffering as my employer has suffered.” Baelish paused. “In fact, she _demanded_ that you suffer.”

Jaime was startled at the idea of Catelyn Stark wanting him dead, wondering what he could have possibly done to the woman. Aerys Targaryen came to mind briefly but was discarded, knowing as he did that the scandal had impacted her studio very little, and the _Aurochs Ace_ franchise had recovered quickly. _“Cat_ wants me dead?” He couldn’t keep the shock from his voice.

Baelish shook his head, his lip curled scornfully. _“Daenerys Targaryen_ is my employer now.”

Jaime was stunned. Everyone in the business knew about Baelish’s pining for Catelyn Stark; his devotion to the woman had spanned decades. “You’re leaving _Catelyn’s_ employ?”

Baelish stalked back and forth along the edge of the train track, pulling at his moustache and mumbling almost feverishly, “She shouldn’t have refused me. _Me._ She _refused_ me!” Baelish stopped and glared at Jaime. “I’ve spent _years_ waiting, _Kingslayer,”_ he hissed, his bitterness clear. “How long does a widow need to grieve?” he wondered aloud, stalking above Jaime’s head once more. “I asked if there was someone else, and she refused to answer—but it was clear from the way you spoke to each other, looked at each other. _You. You_ stole her.” Baelish stopped and drew himself up to his full height, practically spitting out his next words. “Daenerys wanted revenge, and I was only _too_ happy to help. Once you’re dead, I’ve been promised work at Dragon Studios as their head director. Cat will see how wrong she was.”

Jaime was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that Baelish thought he’d been carrying on an illicit affair with Catelyn Stark—a woman who was coldly civil with him at the best of times—and cast about for a way to tell the man how very wrong he was. But as he opened his mouth to try, Baelish pulled a pistol from an inside pocket of his jacket, leveling it at Jaime’s forehead.

“I’m tired of waiting for the train,” Baelish said, cold and calm, a mad gleam in his eye.

Jaime’s senses seemed to sharpen and time seemed to slow, so that all he could see was the black mouth of the gun barrel, a smile stretching over Baelish’s face beyond that, a fly buzzing over his top hat. He smelled dust and iron from the tracks beneath him. He heard the click of Baelish pulling the hammer back on the pistol, a dull, rhythmic thumping, the whinny of a horse.

And then the crack of a gunshot ringing through the air.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hats are lost. Guns are emptied. The day is saved--sort of.

It hadn’t taken Brienne long to realize the wagon was slowing her down, even with two horses pulling. With a frustrated growl, she’d brought it to a halt and stuffed Ron’s gun in the waistband of her Levi’s, back underneath her shirt. It had only taken a few moments to unhitch one of the horses, mount it from the side of the wagon, and nudge it into a gallop. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and the wind grabbed at her Stetson until it finally flew from her head. Brienne didn’t look back from where she crouched against the horse’s neck. Nothing mattered but the shifting, pounding rhythm beneath her, her mount’s long strides eating up the hard packed road, taking her back to camp.

After a mile or so, the road curved sharply to run parallel to the train tracks, the rails glinting at a distance. Brienne had nearly sobbed in relief as a smudge in the distance slowly resolved itself into the camp, had prayed to all the gods that Jaime was still alive.

By all rights, she shouldn’t have seen the figure out of the corner of her eye, but she’d registered the movement and turned her head to see a thin, top-hatted figure pacing alongside the tracks— _Baelish._

Which was how Brienne found herself pulling sharply on the bridle and digging her heel into the horse’s flanks. A high-pitched whinny left its mouth as they left the hard-packed road, churning through the dust and dirt. As she drew closer, Brienne realized the man nervously shifting away from Baelish was Hyle—and she knew the bundle at Baelish’s feet couldn’t be anyone other than Jaime. With mounting horror, she saw the director reach into his coat pocket and pull out a gun, pointing it straight at Jaime.

Without a second thought, Brienne yanked Ron’s pistol from her waistband with one hand, pulled back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger in one smooth motion. She knew her aim wasn’t going to be good, but she hoped it would at least scare Baelish enough to distract him from Jaime. Both men jumped at the sound, Baelish’s ridiculous top hat falling to the dust at his feet. Brienne barely noticed as Hyle ran back in the direction of the camp, too focused on the pistol being aimed at her. She took another shot, and then another, as bullets whistled overhead. She was almost to Jaime and Baelish when the horse spooked, rearing up on its hind legs with a whinny, Brienne tumbling backwards. Her pistol flew from her grasp as she hit the ground, struggling to pull in a breath as she felt for her gun.

 _“Brenda,”_ Baelish hissed, his voice alarmingly close. Suddenly, he was standing over her, pulling back the hammer of his pistol. She’d never seen him look so disheveled, his hair sticking up, sweat shining on his face, his moustache hanging limply. The malevolent gleam in his eye, the cold smirk on his face told her she would soon be dead.

Brienne closed her eyes, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ swimming through her head as she realized how utterly she’d failed. Baelish would kill her, and then kill Jaime—and knowing what she did about the man, he’d walk away from it all smelling like roses.

Her eyes popped open as she heard a hollow _click,_ realizing at the same time as Baelish that his chamber was empty, his eyes widening in alarm. Brienne rolled quickly to her hands and knees, lunging for Baelish’s legs as he lurched towards her fallen pistol. She knocked him down, straddling his torso, her left hand flat against his throat. His eyes were wide with fear, she noticed with grim satisfaction, right before she felt his nose crunch under her right fist. Pain bloomed in her knuckles as crimson poured from his nose. Her next blow landed on his cheekbone, then his temple, and Brienne felt Baelish go limp beneath her as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Slowly, slowly, Brienne found her way back to her feet, walking the dozen or so steps to the train tracks. She looked down at Jaime, alive and mostly unharmed, blinking back up at her, and fell to her knees with a sob.

* * *

Jaime had heard gunshots, but wasn’t sure of the identity of his savior until he heard Baelish hissing  _Brenda._ He’d felt something inside him leap at the knowledge that his bearcat was  _here._ Then he’d known fear as he’d heard the  _click_ of a hammer, not knowing who had a gun on whom. He’d heard the hollow sound of a trigger being pulled without a bullet in the chamber, then the sickening  _crunch_ of breaking bones, gasping breaths, pained grunts. The slow  _shush_ of footsteps dragging through the dirt met his ears, and he’d scarce been able to draw a breath. He blinked as he took in the sight of Brienne, towering above him. Blood oozed in a slow sheet down her broad face and thick neck from a long, shallow, pulpy-looking wound on her left cheek, soaking into the green flannel shirt she’d been wearing that morning. The sun behind her turned her hair into a bright corona, sticking out at odd angles. She’d let out a dry, choked sound and fallen to her knees. And still, Jaime could only stare.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, reaching trembling fingers to brush through his hair.

Jaime could only huff out a disbelieving laugh before grinning at her. “If you untie me, I’ll show you just how ‘all right’ I am, bearcat,” he offered, scarcely believing his luck. She rolled her eyes, a fond smile lurking at the corners of her wide mouth, and Jaime thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

Brienne began picking at the knot over his heart with quiet patience, the smell of dust and coppery blood thick in the air. His palm itched to touch her, to check her injuries, and he struggled to remain still as she worked.

He felt the moment she worked the knot free, using his arms to help her loosen the coils of rope around his chest, feeling like he could finally breathe again. He wriggled backwards and pushed with his legs, and finally he was free. He sat up with a small laugh, pulling his legs from the pile of rope, Brienne pulling the messy tangle away from his feet and shoving it off the track. She turned back and met his smile with one of her own, and Jaime wanted nothing more than to kiss her, feel her pressed against him like she’d been earlier that morning. Jaime leaned forward. Her tongue darted over her lower lip and her lips parted as the smile fell from her face.

“Brienne,” he whispered, his hand coming up to trace lightly over her left brow, down the side of her face, carefully avoiding the shallow wound running just under her cheekbone. She swallowed hard, eyes huge in her face, so close he could see the flecks of cornflower and royal blue. He’d barely brushed his mouth against hers, his eyes sliding shut, when he heard a distinct _click._ His eyes shot open to find Baelish standing behind Brienne, his eyes wild as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. A pistol was clutched in his hands.

And it was pointed at Brienne.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. (We made it!)

Brienne seemed to know something was wrong by the look on his face, as she turned and caught sight of Baelish. All Jaime could think was, _not because of me._ He grasped the ankle of her jeans as she sprang to her feet and turned to meet Baelish, but Brienne was strong, stronger than he’d anticipated. She ripped her ankle from Jaime’s grip as she lunged for Baelish, knocking the pistol from his hands. Jaime saw it land on the other side of the tracks from the corner of his eye. Brienne seemed to stumble then, Baelish shoving her for all his worth, knocking her back as Jaime struggled to his feet.

Jaime heard a dull _thud_ and turned to see Brienne, lying halfway on the train tracks where Jaime had just been tied, unmoving. He felt his heart leap to his throat, longing to go to her, to see how badly she was injured. Baelish seemed to have other ideas though, and the moment of hesitation cost Jaime dearly.

Before he knew it, Jaime found himself wrestling with the director in the hard-packed dirt, the older man having caught him by surprise. He struggled to pull in a breath at first, the impact of hitting the ground with Baelish’s added weight knocking the wind right out of him. The director looked half-crazed, his normally slicked hair sticking up at odd angles, blood leaking from an obviously-broken nose and clotting in his moustache. His knee pressed into Jaime’s left wrist, pinning it to the ground below, as he raised his fist.

_“Kingslayer,”_ Baelish snarled, just before his fist connected with Jaime’s cheekbone. He felt the skin there split under the older man’s knuckles, colors sparking at the edge of his vision from the blow. He saw Baelish pull his fist back once more, and Jaime braced himself for a blow which never came. Both men froze as the piercing sound of a whistle rent the air, and Jaime whipped his head to the side to see a shiny black steam engine barreling down the tracks beyond the tangled straw of Brienne’s hair. Panic and adrenaline surged, Jaime bucking up to throw Baelish off balance, and rolling so the older man was beneath him. Jaime saw red, punching wildly, his fist connecting with the side of Baelish’s bloody face, his already-broken nose, his temple, his eye, ignoring the pain in his knuckles.

The ground rumbled beneath his knees, and the shriek of the whistle sounded again, too close to Brienne, too close for Jaime’s comfort. Baelish was struggling weakly beneath him, small, muffled sobs falling from his mouth. With a final, furious roar, Jaime slammed his fist into Baelish’s temple with all his might, his knuckles splitting, the bones in his hand grinding at the impact. He felt Baelish go limp, saw the whites of his eyes as they rolled back in his head. Jaime staggered to his feet and rushed to Brienne, still unconscious and half on the tracks, the train speeding towards them.

He clenched the cuff of her Levi’s in his left hand, ignoring the stabbing pain of bruised, swollen tendons and flesh. He pulled with all his might, but she moved only a scant inch or two before the strength in his hand gave way, her leg dropping back to the ground. A frustrated growl left his lips as he tried flexing his hand, but his fingers refused to cooperate.

_“Brienne!”_ he bent over and roared in her ear, hoping the noise would rouse her. She stayed stubbornly still, not even a flicker of an eyelid. Jaime glanced to the side as the train whistled once more, the noise from the engine and the squealing brakes drowning out all other sounds. He was reminded strongly of the day before, when he’d been on the tracks and Brienne was desperate to save his life. She hadn’t abandoned him, no matter how dim the odds, and Jaime refused to abandon her now.

_But this can’t be how it ends,_ he thought, determination surging through him. Suddenly,he knew what to do. As fast as he could, he stood with a leg on either side of her hips, sliding both arms under hers to hook his elbows under her shoulders. With a mighty heave, he pulled her upper body close to his and pushed back with his legs, falling backwards onto the packed dirt, Brienne landing on top of him. He felt the air leave his lungs in a _whoosh_ as he heard the train pass by them, the heated air from the engine blowing over them like dragon’s breath as the ground rumbled under his back. He struggled to fill his lungs, though it was difficult from the shock of hitting the ground and Brienne’s weight still on top of him.

The silence, when it came, was almost deafening. Jaime’s ears were still ringing from the blows to his head, the squealing brakes and shrieking whistle so close by, and Brienne still heavy on top of him as he pulled in shallow breaths.

“Jaime?” came a soft, slurred voice. He felt Brienne shift against him slowly, her face turning to press into the side of his neck, her breaths washing over him, slow and even. Jaime thought he’d never felt so relieved in his life, a lump rising in his throat as his hand rose to tangle in her hair.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I’m here.”

“Baelish?” she asked, voice trembling a bit.

“Knocked out behind us,” Jaime reassured her.

She began sobbing quietly into his shoulder, her tears dampening the chambray there as Jaime’s hand ran down her neck to rub small circles over her back. She finally quieted, pulling back to meet his eyes, and Jaime was able to draw in a deep breath. She was red and blotchy, freckles standing in stark relief on her face, hair sticking up wildly from his fingers running through it. Bright blue eyes sparkled from her earlier tears. Blood was smeared over her left cheek from her earlier wound, a black eye forming above it. And Jaime knew.

“I love you,” he whispered, wondering if he was foolish for saying so after such a short time—but he couldn’t keep it to himself, not when she was looking at him like the gods had answered all her prayers.

He knew they’d answered all of his.

Her lips quivered, the muscles in her neck working as she swallowed hard. Jaime felt like he was holding his breath, waiting for her to respond.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I love you, too.”

Jaime grinned at her admission and rolled so they were both on their sides. “You should kiss me, then,” he murmured suggestively, biting into his grin as she flushed darker. She bit her lip, evaluating him. Jaime held his breath as her mouth moved slowly to meet his, her eyes screwed shut. He nearly groaned at the sensation, his hand sliding up to tangle in her hair once more. _Gods,_ he really did love this woman, and to think he’d almost lost her today…

Remembering Baelish, Jaime broke the kiss, opening his eyes to find Brienne staring back at him anxiously. Pressing a final, quick kiss to her lips, he climbed to his feet, pulling Brienne with him. He jerked his head behind him, where Baelish still lay several yards off, and gave her a rueful grin. “We probably should do something about him before he wakes up.”

Brienne smiled shyly, turned, and picked up the coil of rope nearby. “We should tie his wrists, at the very least.” They walked the short distance, Brienne making quick work of binding Baelish’s wrists, leaving the rest coiled in the dirt. She stood and brushed the dust from her palms, looking around awkwardly. “So what now?” she murmured, glancing at Jaime nervously.

Jaime took a moment to brush his fingers under her blackened eye, which was beginning to swell, and noticed the wound on her cheek had stopped bleeding. He hoped it wouldn’t need stitches. She was starting to get nervous and twitchy again, so he grinned, grabbing her hand and pulling her against him, watching an adorable blush creep up her neck. “Now, I think we’re supposed to live happily ever after.” He tried not to laugh at the unimpressed look she shot him. “At least let me ride you off into the sunset,” he leered, unable to hold back a chuckle at her shocked look as she registered the double meaning.

She pulled her hand free, crossing her arms with a scowl as the side of her face he could see flushed darker.

“All right, all right,” Jaime laughed, pulling her hand free and tangling his fingers with hers. “Maybe we wrap this thing, head back to Hollywood, and I take you out to dinner.” Her eyes met his, steady and so, so blue.

“I’m not wearing a dress,” she warned him, eyes shining with humor. She placed her hand on the side of his face, turning it to the side to inspect the tender, split flesh there.

Jaime pretended to think a moment, savoring the gentle touch, then nodded. “Deal.” His smile turned mischievous. “As long as you let me kiss you at the end of the night.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, blush creeping back up her neck. “I won’t be able to take you anywhere, will I?” she muttered.

“I’m afraid not,” Jaime agreed easily. “Won’t be able to get rid of me too easily, either.”

Brienne smiled softly. “I think I like the sound of that.”

“That’s good, then.” Jaime searched her gaze, finding the warmth and love shining there. He pulled her close for another kiss, knowing that they’d saved each other, the villain had been defeated, and their happily ever after was just beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because this was a hellaciously long story (for me) and an utter brute to write, expect a hellaciously long end note. (Okay, not too long.)
> 
> This was a huge divergence from what I normally write. I could not have written it without the help and encouragement of my beta, ikkiM, who is just completely awesome. She was a total cheerleader, gave me great ideas, let me know what was working and what wasn't, and was only a little bit mean during the whole process (kidding! she was actually _really_ mean). But SERIOUSLY, you are the BEST. Thanks for being my internet friend. :D
> 
> I must thank downlookingup and josiepug for letting me bounce ideas off them and giving me ideas in turn, wayyy at the beginning of this whole project. I didn't end up using everything, but I saved that convo and referenced it A TON. Ladies, you were invaluable. :)
> 
> Thank you to the ladies and gentlemen of chat, who politely listened (read? whatever) to me bitching about this story.
> 
> Thank you to SandwichesYumYum for this wonderful prompt. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but as soon as I read it, I had a picture of moustache-twirling Baelish in my head and wanted to write about it.
> 
> And most importantly, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and kudos'd this thing. It really kept me going when I felt like I was slogging through this story.
> 
> Finally, I don't say it often enough, but I truly value any constructive criticism you might have. As I said before, this was definitely me venturing outside my comfort zone, and I'd be interested to hear any suggestions, issues, etc. you might have.
> 
> I love being a part of this awesome fandom. :)


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